Creepypasta of the Week: “Mereana Mordegard Glesgorv”

Previously: “The Little Pink Backpack.”

On April 18, 2008, a short video titled “Mereana Mordegard Glesgorv” appeared on YouTube. Uploaded by a user by the name of erwilzei, it featured a mustachioed man washed over in red staring at the viewer for 20 seconds — nothing more; nothing less. It was perplexing, to be sure; but it was also somewhat unsettling, although no one could really pinpoint why. It’s not a pleasant thing to watch, even though nothing actually happens in it.

It quickly went viral, and eventually a longer version appeared, this time accompanied by a short creepypasta. The pasta claimed that upload it was attached to was merely a clip of the complete video. Those who viewed it in its entirety, it said, tended to suffer unusual and painful ends, frequently at the viewers’ own hands. It noted that the person who had originally uploaded the video had never been found, and that the man seen in it remained unidentified.

The whole thing, of course, is a fiction designed to be taken as truth. The video might make you feel a little weird, but it won’t make you claw your own eyes out. And the man it features? We know who he is; his name is Byron Cortez, and he lives in the U.S. Virgin Islands.

I find it interesting that in this case, the creepypasta was written in response to the video, not the other way around. That’s unusual; normally the videos come after the pastas do. Kind of makes you wonder what the intention was behind the 20-second video in the first place, doesn’t it?

There is a video on YouTube named Mereana Mordegard Glesgorv. If you search this, you will find nothing. The few times you find something, all you will see is a 20 second video of a man staring intently at you, expressionless, then grinning for the last 2 seconds. The background is undefined.

This is only part of the actual video.

The full video lasts 2 minutes, and was removed by YouTube after 153 people who viewed the video gouged out their eyes and mailed them to YouTube’s main office in San Bruno. Said people had also committed suicide in various ways. It is not yet known how they managed to mail their eyes after gouging them out. The cryptic inscription they carve on their forearms has not yet been deciphered.

YouTube will periodically put up the first 20 seconds of the video to quell suspicions, so that people will not go look for the real thing and upload it. The video itself was only viewed by one YouTube staff member, who started screaming after 45 seconds. This man is now under constant sedation and is apparently unable to recall what he saw. The other people who were in the same room as him while he viewed it and turned off the video for him say that all they heard at the time was a high pitched drilling sound. None of them dared look at the screen.

The person who uploaded the video was never found, the IP address being non-existent. And the man in the video has never been identified.

[Via]

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Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes (But Not Terribly Large Ones)

My dear Gentle Readers,

Just wanted to give you all a heads up that starting tomorrow, The Ghost in My Machine will drop down to posting one feature a week instead of two. Don’t worry — I’m not vanishing completely or anything; it’s just that I’ve got somewhat less free time these days than I did when I started the site a year ago. Rather than sacrifice quality for quantity, therefore, I’m going to flip it around: The goal will be one really awesome post a week instead of two mediocre ones. You’ll still be able to get your weekly dose of weirdness from my odd little corner of the Internet (thank you, by the way, for your patronage!), and as always, if there’s anything you’d like to see covered here, leave a comment and I’ll see what I can do.

In the meantime, I hope 2015 has gotten off to a cracking good start for you all. See you on the Shadowside!

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Abandoned: The Decaying Penn Hills Resort in the Poconos (Photos)

A.D. Wheeler/Flickr

 

Previously: The Dead Malls of America.

If travel into the Pocono Mountains region in Monroe County, Pennsylvania, you’ll find an odd sight located off of Route 447 in the town of Analomink: An abandoned resort. But this resort wasn’t known for being grand or luxurious — or at least, not in the sense of “grand and luxurious” that applies to most resorts today. Gaudy and brightly colored, it was the kind of place you went when you wanted to spice things up a little bit with your partner — the kind of place with heart-shaped bath tubs and mirrors in unexpected places. It was once called the Penn Hills Resort, although it has been at least five years since anyone has checked in or out of the place.

Initially opened as a simple tavern in 1944, Penn Hills was almost completely rebuilt in the 1955 after a summer of massive flooding. By the 1960s, it had grown into a sizable vacation destination, with 100 rooms spread out over 500 acres. There was a golf course for the summer and ski slopes and an ice rink for the winter; guests could shoot archery and play tennis by day, and dance the night away once the sun went down. It had a tiki lounge and a wedding bell-shaped pool, and lighting fixtures from the 1964 World’s Fair. It called itself “a paradise of Pocono Pleasure” and reveled in its reputation as a place of “unbridled passion”; in addition to catering to the honeymoon set, it also played host to those partaking in the swinger lifestyle. For several decades, it was the site of much merriment, with its New Year’s Eve parties in particular drawing a crowd year after year.

But by the 1980s, travel had become more affordable. Why drive a few hours away and spend several hundred dollars a night when you could fly to somewhere more exotic for the same price? Penn Hills began to fall into disrepair, and by the time the resorts co-founder, Frances Poalillo, passed away in 2009 at the age of 102, even the employees noted, “The rooms are around $300 a night. You can get a better room at the Howard Johnson’s for $55.” The resort closed just two months later, owing Monroe County somewhere in the neighborhood of $1.25 million in back taxes. The employees never received their final paychecks.

The empty and decaying resort is now a hotbed for vandalism, torn to shreds as much as it has fallen apart on its own. Pieces of it have been auctioned off, among them the golf course, the ski resort, and a few undeveloped plots of land; but most of the buildings remain, falling more and more to the decay of time as each year goes by. It isn’t haunted — but it may as well be. Only the ghost of its former self remains.

 

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Scare Yourself Silly: The the Max Headroom Broadcast Intrusion

televisionsPreviously: Why We Play Those Games We Shouldn’t Play.

This post originally appeared on The Toast.

When The Outer Limits debuted on ABC in 1963, one of the most iconic and troubling opening sequences ever to hit television appeared on our screens for the very first times. “There is nothing wrong with your television set,” it told us. “Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission. We will control the horizontal. We will control the vertical. We will control all that you see and hear.” This is true of any TV broadcast — the network is of course in control of what you’re seeing — but this simple opening narration created the conceit that our television sets had been taken over by something different, something… otherworldly. But we knew it was fiction, so we settled back to enjoy it in the same way we do when we huddle around campfires, telling scary tales to each other in the dark.

Little did the creators of the show know, however, that over 20 years later, the people of Chicago would end up in an Outer Limits-type situation in real life. On November 22, 1987, the signal during channel 9 WGN’s regular broadcast of the nine o’clock news cut out without warning. What replaced it ran for only 30 seconds, but in spite of its brevity, wasn’t an image easily forgotten. A person wearing a mask — the latex kind that covers your whole head — suddenly flashed up on the screen. The mask was designed to look like Max Headroom, the fictional AI character played by Matt Frewer who had first been introduced to the world in the 1985 made-for-TV movie Max Headroom: 20 Minutes Into the Future. The Max lookalike stood before a sheet of corrugated metal, moving around as if he were dancing; there was no sound beyond a low buzzing noise. It was intensely bizarre, and it could only mean one thing:

Someone had hijacked the television station.

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The Most Dangerous Games: The Doors of Your Mind

doorsPreviously: The Hooded Man Ritual

Although The Doors of Your Mind has been reposted in a number of places, I’m pretty sure it first appeared on the r/ThreeKings subreddit roughly two years ago. Shortly after The Three Kings game itself took r/NoSleep on by storm, a spin-off sub devoted solely to “recipes” and experiences for similar games was created. It played host to a huge flurry of activities right after its creation; since then, it’s slowed down somewhat, with new posts being fewer and arriving further between. It’s still an interesting place to visit, though, so check it out if you haven’t already.

This game is also sometimes referred to as “Doors to the Mind,” although it shouldn’t be confused with the creepypasta “Gateway of the Mind.” According to redditor u/brickell, it’s not nearly as dangerous as many of these sorts of rituals tend to be; it’s still best to proceed with caution, though. After all, you never know what might be lurking in the corners of your own head.

As always, play at your own risk.

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Unresolved: The Miniature Coffins of Arthur’s Seat

coffins 1Previously: The Town That Killed Ken McElroy.

On the fourth level of Edinburgh’s National Museum of Scotland is a curious exhibit: A collection of tiny coffins, each measuring just 95mm in length and containing a wooden figure of a man. We don’t know what they are, or why they were found where they were, or who might have put them there; and what’s more, we probably never will know. But they remain one of the most peculiar archeological discoveries of the 19th century, a mystery that continues to niggle at us to this very day.

They were first discovered in June of 1836 by five boys. They had gone out hunting for rabbits on the northeast slope of the hill known as Arthur’s Seat (which itself may or may not have gotten its name from Arthurian legend); according to writer and researcher Charles Fort, they stumbled upon some thin sheets of slate in the side of a cliff, which they then pulled out. Here’s how Fort described what they found next (via Smithsonian):

Little cave.

Seventeen tiny coffins.

Three or four inches long.

In the coffins were miniature wooden figures. They were dressed differently in both style and material. There were two tiers of eight coffins each, and a third one begun, with one coffin.

The extraordinary datum, which has especially made mystery here:

That the coffins had been deposited singly, in the little cave, and at intervals of many years. In the first tier, the coffins were quite decayed, and the wrappings had moldered away. In the second tier, the effects of age had not advanced so far. And the top coffin was quite recent looking.”

Weird, right?

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Encyclopaedia of the Impossible: The Smith Sisters, Murdered Anonymously

sistersPreviously: The Noise Coming from Inside Children.

Type: EV (Electronic Virus)

Period/location of origin: Unknown. The earliest record of subject appears in June of 2005; however, portions of the story held within subject take place in the early ‘90s. Subject’s time frame may change depending on its version number. Subject’s location of origin is similarly unknown, although the story within takes place in Plainfield, Wisconsin.

Appearance: Subject appears to be a chain letter of the sort commonly circulated in the early days of the Internet. Many versions of subject exist; the details of the story told by subject, subject’s time frame, and subject’s grammatical correctness may vary depending on which version has been cast to snare target.

Modus operandi: Subject presents itself to target as a chain letter shared via email, ostensibly sent from a person of target’s acquaintance. The chain letter tells the story of a boy in Plainfield, Wisconsin who begins receiving either emails or instant messages from a pair of girls claiming to be his sisters. The boy, who has grown up as an only child, tells them he has no sisters and requests forcefully that they leave him alone.

In the next message, he receives from them, they inform him that not only did they live in his house many years ago, but moreover, that they died there, as well. This message may or may not contain a photograph of two girls with the caption, “THE SMITH SISTERS, MURDERED ANONYMOUS” and/or a newspaper article detailing their brutal murder. The sisters, angry at having been ignored or forgotten by their parents, may then close the story in one of two ways: Either they murder the boy in the same manner of their own deaths, or murder the parents the same way. Subject then informs target that target must pass the letter on, or else face either their own death or take responsibility for the deaths of their parents.

Although subject’s story is widely understood to be fictional, subject continues to insist story is factual, often including a post-script resembling the following:

“P.S. Guys… I looked it up on Google and it really happened. Creepy, eh? I don’t normally do these… but this one bothers me a bit. Here’s the article:

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